


Dust and Ashes

by George_the_Pumpkin, Run Im A Natural Disaster (Darkness34)



Series: Run! and George Do Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: Emergency! (TV 1972)
Genre: Day 4: Running Out of Time, Fire, Gen, Hurt Johnny, Implied earthquake, Rescue, Some blood but it's not graphic, Whumptober 2020, collapsed building, vague descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_the_Pumpkin/pseuds/George_the_Pumpkin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkness34/pseuds/Run%20Im%20A%20Natural%20Disaster
Summary: Trapped in a collapsed building Johnny works feverishly to stay alive while the crew works to get him out.
Series: Run! and George Do Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950496
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Dust and Ashes

There was an enormous pressure on his chest. 

Why was there someone sitting on him?

If it was Chet he was going to kill him. But before he could do that he needed to find the energy to will his eyes to open and limbs to move. Why was he so tired?

They hadn’t had too many runs today. And the most draining rescue was rescuing a cat out of a tree. Three times.

So why did he feel like he had swum the English Channel? 

It didn’t make sense. 

Nothing made sense.

He willed his eyes to open and immediately regretted it. Dust and ash were swirling in the air, stinging his eyes. Shouldn’t he have a face mask? Wasn’t he in a burning building?

He forced his eyes open again and ignored the stinging pain it brought.

But looking at his arms, there was no thick turnout coat protecting him, just the flimsy sleeve of his uniform jacket. Why would he go into a burning building without his gear? He’d made a few runs without his helmet before but never in just his uniform.

What did that mean? 

He was so confused.

And why was he alone? He never went into an unsafe place without his crew or his partner.

His partner.

_ Roy. _

Where was he?

Was he with him in this strange and terrible place?

He forced his arms to reach, move across the floor, searching for any sign that Roy was trapped here with him. He felt like a demonic snow angel; a child making angelic silhouettes in the ash and debris of hellfire. 

His fingers brushed against rubble and plastic. 

Nothing that suggested another life in this tomb.

He sighed in relief, coughing around the smoke he inhaled.

Laying back against the ground, his smoke addled brain worked slowly to form a plan of action. It was obvious that he couldn’t stay here. He had no protection and a burning building was not a safe place for anyone. 

He had to get out.

But first, he should take stock of himself. Was he even in any shape to escape on his own? If he wasn’t, could he force himself to do so anyway?

He didn’t know.

He dreaded the answer was going to be a resounding  _ no.  _

He forced himself away from that thought.

He’d take stock of himself and then go from there.

He couldn’t feel his left leg, he sincerely hoped his back wasn’t broken. His head was pounding and shrieking every time he so much as breathed.

And each breath he took got harder and harder. 

Probably a pneumothorax and a possible concussion.

Lovely.

He didn't want to move in case he did have a back injury but he couldn’t just lay there. Waiting for help that may or may not come. 

Trying to sit up, he noticed a beam lying across his chest. 

Oh, when did that get there?

Maybe he didn’t have a pneumothorax after all. With his luck though, he would.

Bracing his shoulders against the ground, he shoved the beam away from him. 

Taking his first deep breath in a while somewhat revitalized him.

He took a few moments to enjoy his ability to breathe freely, before pushing himself up onto his elbows. There was only a few inches of clearance between his head and a piece of plywood.

There was a wall behind him. Except it didn’t look quite like a wall should… it reminded him more of a piece of furniture like a bookcase or a ...desk. Especially with the pieces of plywood tipped against it. It wasn’t tall enough to be a wall.

Why did that seem important? 

He studied the dark wood paneling. 

Oh well, he would think of it later.

Looking down at his body, he saw a rebar rod sticking out of his hip. 

Ah.

That would be why he can’t feel his leg.

His pant leg was soaked in blood and a large bright red puddle was forming underneath him. His femoral artery was probably nicked, at least. 

He needed to get the bleeding under control. The only reason he hadn’t already bleed out was the rebar acting as a plug keeping the blood inside. 

Taking his jacket off, he wrapped it around the bar as best he could and tied the sleeves together. Tightening it until he felt like he might pass out from the pain.

His leg might be asleep but his hip certainly was not.

He lay panting until the pain went back to a steady throb. 

With that taken care of, he hopefully wouldn’t die before help came. 

Sitting up again he grabbed a broken piece of wood and started banging on the floor in the rhythm of Shave and a Haircut.

Within five minutes his arms were shaking from exertion and he was shivering. The blood loss sapping away his heat.

‘Just one more time’ was a mantra going through his head. Just one more time and someone will save me.

His song had slowed down to a funeral march.

Blood permeated his jacket and other pant leg now.

The sour smell filled his nostrils and brought a round of nausea.

He wasn’t afraid of blood. He was a paramedic, you couldn’t do this job and be afraid of blood.

But the amount pouring out of him was truly terrifying. 

And stomach-churning.

He blinked rapidly trying to find the strength to stay awake.

And if he fell asleep he might aspirate. If he was going to die here, it wasn’t going to be because he choked on vomit.

He grabbed the piece of wood one last time and smacked it into the beam seven times. 

Letting it fall from his exhausted hands with a clatter he closed his eyes and slumped down.

In that millisecond before unconsciousness claimed him, there was an annoying sound. 

_ Bang. Bang. _

A pause.

_ Bang. Bang, bang. Bang. Bang. _

His half-awake mind struggled to find why it seemed important.

_ Bang. Bang. _

Another pause. 

_ Bang. Bang, bang. Bang. Bang _ .

His eyes snapped open.

His hands scrambled for the wood. He hardly noticed the giant sliver he got when he picked it up.

He swung it down onto the beam once, twice. And paused before hitting it five more times.

Two bangs answered the call.

His famous crooked smile crossed his face briefly. 

He could hear Chet calling, “Gage, you’re the only one I know who would use that stupid song.”

The wood and rubble surrounding him shifted, raining down flecks of wood and dust. 

A mustached face appeared in his field of vision. 

“Gee, Gagey baby, you look terrible.”

“Thanks, Chet,” was the breathless reply. “You always know what to say to a guy.”

He gave a cheesy grin in reply. 

Brice and Bellingham appeared next to Chet.

Both climbed down to crouch on either side of him.

“Chet. We’re going to need a stokes, a backboard, the drug box, the trauma box, and a doctor.”

“A doctor, huh,” John said. And suddenly he remembered where he was. The hospital. The last thing he remembered was talking to Dixie at the nurse's station. “Is everyone else, okay?”

“You just worry about yourself, Johnny,” Bellingham answered.

He glared at him ready to demand an actual answer when Brice interrupted him.

“Do you hurt anywhere else, besides your hip?”

He checked John’s eyes while waiting for an answer.

“My head is pounding…. My chest is hurting,” John replied and sardonically added on, “And my hand has a sliver in it.”

A deep voice joined in the conversation, “Glad to see a sliver is the worst of your troubles.” 

Brackett had a wry twist to his mouth. There was a bandage on his forehead and his right leg looked stiff but overall he looked to be fine.

He joined Brice on Johnny’s left side. 

“Hand me some pressure bandages,” he requested. “And have some more ready for when we lift him off this rebar.”

A pitiful sounding whine left John’s lips at those words.

Brackett gave his patient a sympathetic grimace.

By now Johnny’s jacket was stuck to his leg. A whimper would escape him each time they peeled a section of it off.

The pressure bandages were quickly put on and just as quickly soaked red.

The corner of Brackett's mouth twitched downward. “What are his vitals?”

“BP is 60 over 30, pulse 160, respirations 30,” Brice rattled off.

Brackett's mouth twitched again. “Chet, go find me some blood. Fast as you can.”

John hadn’t even noticed him come back.

He wasn’t noticing much of anything right now. 

Besides the pain radiating from his hip and the swirling ceiling above him. 

It was making him dizzy and the nausea returned.

He closed his eyes hoping for some reprieve but someone was tapping their fingers against his cheek.

He moaned in response but the fingers only grew more insistent.

Opening his eyes to glare balefully at the annoyance. It was hard when the room was spinning and the urge to vomit became overpowering.

“Quick!” Brackett shouted. “Lift him up and turn him.”

Bellingham grabbed his shoulders and turned him onto his side, hands supporting him as Johnny leaned up on one shaky elbow and vomited.

Tears streamed down John’s face from the force of retching and the now obvious concussion.

When he was reduced to dry-heaving, he tiredly flapped his hand to signal to Bellingham he was done and to lay him back down.

Chet came back in with a couple of blood bags. 

Another IV was started in his other arm. The saline bag connected to his first IV had already been drained. So both IVs would be able to be used to transfuse the blood.

The pressure bandages were replaced and a slight sedative injected into his IV line to help keep him somewhat calm before the second blood bag was hooked up. 

“What’s his BP now?”

Brice checked again. “67 over 40”

“That will have to do,” Brackett said. “Chet, come help Bellingham lift him on that side. Alright on three. One… Two… Three.”

A strangled scream came from Johnny as the rebar started backing out.

It scraped against his destroyed bone and muscle and nerve endings. The pain was excruciating.

Everyone there with him winced in sympathy. 

The rebar sticking out the floor stood as though it were a bloody sword. 

And just like a sword, the metal would forever hold the evidence of what it had done. 

Controlled chaos occurred as it always does on calls. Hands packed the wound with bandages, others lifted him up and placed him in the stokes and then he was on his way out of the building. 

It only took a few seconds for sunlight slanted into his half-lidded eyes, which was strange because he had been pretty far back inside of the building.

Squinting up he saw the remains of what used to be the emergency department.

The walls and most of the ceiling were gone; scattered about the ground.

He was placed on a gurney and loaded into one of the waiting ambulances.

And there was Roy. Sitting on the ledge.

He was bruised and his arms and face were littered with cuts. His arm was in a sling and his hand was bandaged. 

But there he was.

“Roy.” 

“Hey, Junior.” He grinned. “You sure got yourself into a pickle this time.”

“I have to keep you guys on your toes.” He joked back. “No one else seems to do it as well as me.”

They chuckled together.

“How is everyone?” John said breaking the light atmosphere.

“There are a lot of walking wounded. Only a few people were seriously injured, including you. They’re taking everyone to Harbor General since they don’t know how unstable the rest of the building is.” ”

“Dixie? Early? Morton?”

“They’re all fine. They’ll be laid up for a while though.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear.”

Roy just smiled in response. 

Johnny would be okay. They all would be okay. In time.

**Author's Note:**

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